Back to December
by Sybil Corvax
Summary: songfic. Back to December - Taylor Swift. Arthur knows he can't turn back time, but he wishes he could make things right again.


November 22, 2011

**A/N: **Inspiration – heard "Back to December" by Taylor Swift and thought of a good FrUk story. Hence, here it is. I'm collecting all my muses now into one document. We'll see how that works out for us, eh?

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><p>-Back to December (FrUK)—<p>

_I'm glad you made time to see me._

_How's life? Tell me, how's your family?_

_I haven't seen them in awhile._

Arthur's mind is full of words he could say, but won't say as he watches Francis from a distance. The Frenchman smiles and laughs and chats away with the pretty young girl who comes into the flower shop all the time, and Arthur…Arthur twists and churns with inner jealousy, but he doesn't do a thing.

He gave that up. He isn't the one Francis smiles at anymore because of his own choices and he's too damn full of pride to confront the bastard and spill everything.

So, he watches from across the street like a creeper and allows his mind to sink into guilt, but his back remains straight and his shoulders don't slump and his expression is numb.

_You've been good, busier than ever._

_We small talk, work and the weather._

_Your guard is up and I know why._

"Ah, is there something I can help you with, Arthur?"

The Englishman bristles faintly at the familiar voice and looks up, green meeting with blue and his tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth. And dry.

He can't find words, but that's to be expected. He never planned to venture into the flower shop where his former French…(fling?) works, it just happened against his over all plan. Not that he really had a plan to begin with other than to silently suffer with the realisation of his mistakes.

Arthur is a man full of pride and it's hard for him to admit when he is wrong.

Still, it's odd to hear something other than a nickname fall from Francis' lips. He really must still be heartbroken…

"Not a damn thing." He scowls and Francis sighs.

Arthur notes that his posture is tired and his heart lurches and sinks into his stomach and he doesn't know what to say now.

So…like he did in December, he walks away and doesn't look back.

He regrets it just the same.

_Because the last time you saw me_

_Is still burned in the back of your mind._

_You gave me roses and I left them there to die._

Withered roses sit in a jade vase on the windowsill and Arthur sits in the kitchen with a hot cup of tea, staring at them. His mind travels back to a time when they were fresh and beautiful, just like Francis' love had been.

Now look at them.

Dead.

Time kills everything beautiful – and Arthur's touch just seems to quicken the pace.

…

He really should throw those out.

He sips his tea instead.

_So this is me swallowing my pride,_

_Standing in front of you saying, "I'm sorry for that night,"_

_And I go back to December all the time._

Crumpled pieces of paper filled with ink.

Arthur is not as good with words as one would think. His actions speak louder, but then, his actions are never quite what he wishes to portray either. They're always too blunt, rigid, hurtful.

If he could be a better man, he would be, but he's not. Still, he wants to be and he knows that he needs to start somewhere. If that means writing out an apology letter and…begging Francis back, then so be it.

Though begging really wouldn't be the best choice of words that he would use.

_It turns out freedom ain't nothing, but missing you._

_Wishing I'd realised what I had when you were mine._

Why had he given it all away to begin with? It's a question Arthur asks himself more often than he'd like to. Because it consists of regret and emotions he'd rather not deal with.

It's his fault.

His own bloody fault.

Francis had been happy and Arthur had been happy and he threw it away because he was _scared_.

_I'd go back to Decemeber, turn around and make it all right._

_I go back to December all the time._

He dreams of better decisions though. Descions of turning around and looking at Francis and hugging him and kissing him and telling him he didn't mean it and that he was sorry. Brief lapse in judgement and it would never happen again.

And things turn out to be okay in those dreams.

Because in those dreams, Arthur is able to go back to December and swallow his damn pride and tell Francis he's sorry for being afraid of being caged.

Arthur was never more free than when he was with Francis.

_These days I haven't been sleeping,_

_Staying up, playing back myself leavin'_

_When your birthday passed and I didn't call._

Other nights, Arthur can't dream at all because sleep is cruel and won't take him. Tonight, he doesn't dream because he drowns himself in paper after paper. Paper and ink and words of regrets and apologies and a part of him knows that even if he finds the right words, he probably won't ever be able to give them to Francis.

And even if he could, Francis may never accept them.

A part of Arthur hopes he wouldn't. The part that knows Francis may be better off without him anyway.

But Arthur Kirkland is a selfish man.

And Francis Bonnefoy is the man who gives too much.

_And I think about summer, all the beauitful times,_

_I watched you laughing from the passenger side._

_Realised that I loved you in the fall._

Love.

Love were the smiles that Francis used to have. The feeling Arthur used to have because those smiles were meant for Arthur and Arthur alone. Not some young girl who visits the flower shop.

Still, Arthur knows those smiles Francis gives the girl aren't the same. They aren't the smiles from the spring and summer and fall. They are the smiles that dream just as much as Arthur does.

Arthur misses Francis' laughter and smiles and he wants to hold him again and he wants to be held by him again and he wants to –

He stops himself, gulps down the rest of his tea and grabs another pen.

_And then the cold came, the dark days when fear crept into my mind._

_You gave me all your love and all I gave you was "Goodbye"._

That's really what it all comes down too.

Arthur has never been a romantic. He's never been the type to give away his heart gift-wrapped. Francis had always understood that better than anyone. Where the fear came from, Arthur can never truly say.

But it was there.

Isn't it better to leave than to be left? His mind had screamed it when the first snow had fallen. Those days had been stilted and awkward between the two of them.

Arthur had been angrier, less willing.

He wasn't sure what he wanted. Not then. Not really.

He wishes he could have given Francis more than "Goodbye" – he wishes he could turn back time, but what good would that do now?

_So this is me swallowing my pride._

_Standing in front of you saying, "I'm sorry for that night."_

_And I go back to December all the time._

_It turns out freedom ain't nothing, but missing you,_

_Wishing I'd realised what I had when you were mine._

"**I am yours, cher." Francis had murmured in his ear and Arthur had shuddered before curling against him under the covers.**

**The warmth was pleasing, but Arthur still had felt hollow. Like he was chained, almost, but not quite. Maybe he was the one who was chaining Francis?**

**In that case…it would be best to leave before his heart was broken.**

**Francis deserved someone better. Someone who could give him more. Arthur couldn't give anything.**

**All he could give was "Goodbye" and wash his hands of it and be okay.**

**And be free.**

_I'd go back to December, turn around and change my own mind._

_I go back to December all the time._

"**Turn around." He grinds out to the green eyed man before him, who is startled and clearly aware of the double before him.**

"**Turn around and go back. You're wrong, you imbecile! Wrong! March right back there, apologise, kiss him, and promise to never leave! Do it!"**

When Arthur wakes up from these dreams, he wishes he had such bravery now as he does when he sleeps. The few dreams he allows himself to have further sink him into the realisation of what could have been.

_I miss your tanned skin, your sweet smile,_

_So good to me, so right._

_And how you held me in your arms that September night –_

_The First time you ever saw me cry._

It had been one argument too far for Arthur. Something said he'd never been able to take back. Now, it's fuzzy and unimportant. At the time, it had meant everything.

The first time he broke down. The only time he broke down in front of Francis.

The man had stood there, in shock, but had held Arthur anyway. Arthur, sometimes, could still feel the bloody Frenchman's fingers running through his hair and hear his voice, drenched with romanticsm and love, telling him that it's going to be okay.

And telling him that no matter what is said, Francis relies more on Arthur's actions than anything. Because Arthur is a man who stumbles when he speaks, but is graceful when he moves and blunt when he acts.

Arthur's actions are worth more than words.

Arthur had kissed him then.

Arthur wishes he could kiss him now.

If Francis were here, this would be the second time he has seen Arthur cry.

But he's not.

It's Arthur's fault.

It always will be…but…that doesn't mean…

That he will make the same mistake twice.

_Maybe this is wishful thinking,_

_Probably mindless dreaming,_

_But if we loved again, I swear I'd love you right._

How long he worked on that masterpiece of crap folded up in his coat pocket, Arthur never really counted. He knows he looks like shit and he knows he looks tired and tousled, but the air is cold and it's February and Valentines Day and never in his life has he been this nervous – at least, not that he can immediately recall.

This time.

If there was a this time…

Arthur will do this right.

_I'd go back in time and change it, but I can't._

_So if the chain is on your door, I understand._

Francis is clearly surprised to see Arthur there, on his doorstep. The man has clearly just woken up and Arthur wishes he had time to admire him, but he has more important things to do.

His heart wrenches and he pulls off his glove, reaching into his pocket and thrusting it out before him, cheeks burning, but face serious.

"…Arthur?"

"Read it. I spent enough time on it, so bloody read it." And he stands there and it snows and Francis unfolds the careful halves of the paper which has been crumpled so many times and on it there's so many crosses and pen marks and it's not perfect.

_But this is me swallowing my pride_

"I stayed up all night. Couldn't figure out what to say or how to start. Figured it out now, though."

Francis looks up, clearly confronted and unsure.

_Standing in front of you saying, "I'm sorry for that night."_

"I'm sorry. I'm…I'm gravely sorry for what I've done to you. You gave me everything…and I couldn't…"

_And I go back to December…_

"Every night, I regret it. I wish I could go back…and change it, but I can't. So, I'm here. Now. With that. Saying this. Giving you everything I have now."

_It turns out freedom ain't nothing, but missing you,_

"What…?"

"Let me finish…please." Arthur murmurs and Francis falls silent, the little piece of paper being lightly crumpled in his fingers.

"My freedom…if that's what you would call it…wasn't what it was supposed to be."

_Wishing I'd realised what I had when you were mine._

"I didn't realise what I had. I was a blind idiot who couldn't recognise true love when he saw it. Now…now I know. And I'm sorry. I can't say it enough…Fro- Francis…I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I..I just want you to know that if I could…"

_I'd go back to December, turn around and make it all right._

"I'd turn back the clock and make everything fine…"

_I'd go back to December, turn around and change my own mind._

"And I'd go back, shout some bloody sense into myself, make myself turn around, run to you, and kiss you. But I can't. I can't do any of that."

"Non, you cannot." Francis puts bluntly when Arthur finishes and the Englishman flinches and looks away from him, afraid to see the scandalised blue eyes which more than likely hate him for what he's done.

Arthur hates himself for it, after all.

But he still has to try.

"However…" Francis murmurs again, reaching out and gently taking Arthur's cold ungloved hand into his own.

Arthur has no choice, but to look up and when he does, his blood runs hot when he sees the familiar smile.

_I go back to December all the time._

"While the past cannot be changed…the present and future can…perhaps…I should not forgive you, but…I could never bring myself to hate you. Now, come inside for some tea, cher."

And like that, it's okay again.

How?

Arthur blinks several times before he counts his blessings and follows Francis inside.

_All the time._

No more looking back.


End file.
